notice there
was another murder that night the answer is yes, but again not
straight away. I only realized it today when I read the newspaper
this morning and then checked back copies of Le Temps . It
didn’t take much to realize there was a murder each time we staged
a new show. The tenth, seventeenth, twenty-fourth, and the premier
day of December - last night.” He ignored the ashtray and flicked
ash into the paper bin.
“You realized each murder was
similar to one of your plays?”
“Yes, of course, a man strung
up on a tree – ears hacked off, a woman dangling over her balcony -
scalped, a man with his eyes gouged out and left on a grave, and
last night a corpse sitting outside a café with his tongue cut out.
That’s why you asked me if I had been to Café Bistro.”
“Yes.”
“Everyone in the show goes
there. Kiki practically lives there. The Humboldts are in love with
her.”
“Is she in love with them?”
“The cocotte is in love with
love. She enjoys adulation and applause and all the attention.”
The Countess paused to draw
breath, extinguishing her cigarette slowly, painstakingly, though
it was only half burnt down. “Now, this is important. Who reads the
scripts before the play is staged?”
He hesitated a moment. “Serge
Davidov.”
“Anyone else?”
“No,” he said without
hesitation. “I keep my room at the theatre locked. I had an ivory
dip pen stolen when we first set up in rue Ballu. Since that time I
have always locked my door.”
“And Monsieur Davidov?”
“He keeps the door to his
little sitting room locked too. Plus he keeps the scripts in a
locked chest. He doesn’t want anyone to see them or know what we
will be performing until the night. We rehearse on what is called a
closed set. Anticipation builds because of the secrecy. It is all
part of the mystique and horror of le Cirque du Grand
Guignol . Not knowing what will be performed is more shocking
than knowing in advance and bracing for it.”
“What about costumes and
props?”
“Everyone in the show decides
for him or herself. They are all old hands. They have all been
performing since they were children. They don’t have costumiers and
such. They can order what they like as far as costumes and wigs go.
Davidov doesn’t quibble about expenses. He wants to be more famous
than the rue Chaptal gang. That’s another reason he is fanatical
about secrecy. If our rivals got hold of a script and staged one of
our plays before us there would be all hell to pay.”
“Our plays?”
“What?”
“You said our plays – as
if it is a collective effort.”
He shifted uncomfortably and
stared at his cigarette. “Well, it is collective. We all
have a stake in the success of it. The scripts are just an outline.
Davidov encourages everyone to ad lib. It makes it more real.
That’s why the shows are so successful and audiences can come again
and again to see the same show. No two shows are ever word for word
identical. Just the general plot is followed.”
“I see. But do you see?”
“What?”
“If no one sees the script but
Davidov, the five cast members and you, then one of you must be
passing the information to the murderer.”
He leapt out of the chair,
aghast; ash fell on the Turkey rug. “No! No!” he denied
strenuously, using his shoe to obliterate the ash out of
existence.
“You cannot destroy a fact
simply by denying it.”
Weakly, he fell back into the
chair and ground the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray before
letting his head fall into his hands. “Do you think someone is
passing the scripts onto our rivals so that they can ruin us?”
Again, she noticed he didn’t
refer to the scripts as: my scripts. “To implicate you in
murder?”
“Yes - oh, my God!”
He sounded like a man who had
just experienced a shocking epiphany.
“What is it?” she pressed
before he had time to collect himself.
He looked up slowly. The blood
had drained from his face. The eyes seemed magnified
was another murder that night the answer is yes, but again not
straight away. I only realized it today when I read the newspaper
this morning and then checked back copies of Le Temps . It
didn’t take much to realize there was a murder each time we staged
a new show. The tenth, seventeenth, twenty-fourth, and the premier
day of December - last night.” He ignored the ashtray and flicked
ash into the paper bin.
“You realized each murder was
similar to one of your plays?”
“Yes, of course, a man strung
up on a tree – ears hacked off, a woman dangling over her balcony -
scalped, a man with his eyes gouged out and left on a grave, and
last night a corpse sitting outside a café with his tongue cut out.
That’s why you asked me if I had been to Café Bistro.”
“Yes.”
“Everyone in the show goes
there. Kiki practically lives there. The Humboldts are in love with
her.”
“Is she in love with them?”
“The cocotte is in love with
love. She enjoys adulation and applause and all the attention.”
The Countess paused to draw
breath, extinguishing her cigarette slowly, painstakingly, though
it was only half burnt down. “Now, this is important. Who reads the
scripts before the play is staged?”
He hesitated a moment. “Serge
Davidov.”
“Anyone else?”
“No,” he said without
hesitation. “I keep my room at the theatre locked. I had an ivory
dip pen stolen when we first set up in rue Ballu. Since that time I
have always locked my door.”
“And Monsieur Davidov?”
“He keeps the door to his
little sitting room locked too. Plus he keeps the scripts in a
locked chest. He doesn’t want anyone to see them or know what we
will be performing until the night. We rehearse on what is called a
closed set. Anticipation builds because of the secrecy. It is all
part of the mystique and horror of le Cirque du Grand
Guignol . Not knowing what will be performed is more shocking
than knowing in advance and bracing for it.”
“What about costumes and
props?”
“Everyone in the show decides
for him or herself. They are all old hands. They have all been
performing since they were children. They don’t have costumiers and
such. They can order what they like as far as costumes and wigs go.
Davidov doesn’t quibble about expenses. He wants to be more famous
than the rue Chaptal gang. That’s another reason he is fanatical
about secrecy. If our rivals got hold of a script and staged one of
our plays before us there would be all hell to pay.”
“Our plays?”
“What?”
“You said our plays – as
if it is a collective effort.”
He shifted uncomfortably and
stared at his cigarette. “Well, it is collective. We all
have a stake in the success of it. The scripts are just an outline.
Davidov encourages everyone to ad lib. It makes it more real.
That’s why the shows are so successful and audiences can come again
and again to see the same show. No two shows are ever word for word
identical. Just the general plot is followed.”
“I see. But do you see?”
“What?”
“If no one sees the script but
Davidov, the five cast members and you, then one of you must be
passing the information to the murderer.”
He leapt out of the chair,
aghast; ash fell on the Turkey rug. “No! No!” he denied
strenuously, using his shoe to obliterate the ash out of
existence.
“You cannot destroy a fact
simply by denying it.”
Weakly, he fell back into the
chair and ground the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray before
letting his head fall into his hands. “Do you think someone is
passing the scripts onto our rivals so that they can ruin us?”
Again, she noticed he didn’t
refer to the scripts as: my scripts. “To implicate you in
murder?”
“Yes - oh, my God!”
He sounded like a man who had
just experienced a shocking epiphany.
“What is it?” she pressed
before he had time to collect himself.
He looked up slowly. The blood
had drained from his face. The eyes seemed magnified
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